[T]he shadows […] presently began to seem, as on last night, to have a sentience of their own.

On the evidence of this lysergic dish – blobs and pools of strident oddness, especially the mozzarella-topped gelée that tastes like the stuff left at the bottom of olive tins topped with organic foaming facewash – [David] Shrigley's better off sticking to the art.

Ill-will can mak a stooshie, but love can settle a stramash.

You guys are pathetic. I'm gonna find myself a little hottie.